“Can we go back into your office and talk?”
“As you see, I’m on my way out, and I’m in somewhat of a hurry to get downtown before the end of the business day. The Pettijohn case goes to the grand jury on Thursday.”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about.”
Preston Cross never took no for an answer. He steered Hammond toward a sliver of shade against the building’s flat facade. “What happened to your arm?”
“Too much to explain now,” he replied impatiently. “What’s so urgent it can’t wait?”
“Monroe Mason called me from his cell phone on his way to the gym this afternoon. He’s deeply troubled.?
?
“What’s the problem?”
“I dread even to think about the consequences if Monroe’s speculation is correct.”
“Speculation?”
“That you have developed an improper regard for that Dr. Ladd.”
That Dr. Ladd. Whenever his father spoke disparagingly of someone, he always placed the generic pronoun in front of their name. The depersonalization was his subtle way of expressing his low opinion of the individual.
Stalling, Hammond said, “You know, it’s really beginning to piss me off that every time Mason has a beef with me, he calls you. Why doesn’t he come to me directly?”
“Because he’s an old friend. If he sees my son about to piss away his future, he respects me enough to warn me of it. I’m sure he hoped that I would intervene.”
“Which you’re all too glad to do.”
“You’re goddamn right I am!”
His father’s face had turned red up to the roots of his white hair. There was spittle in the corner of his lips. He rarely lost his temper and considered emotional outbursts of any sort a weakness reserved for women and children. Removing a handkerchief from his back pants pocket, he blotted his perspiring forehead with the neat white square of Irish linen. More calmly he said, “Assure me that Monroe’s notion is totally groundless.”
“Where did he get the idea?”
“Firstly, from your lackadaisical approach to this case.”
“I’d hardly call it that. I’ve been working my butt off. Granted, I’ve exercised caution—”
“To a fault.”
“In your opinion.”
“And Mason’s, too, apparently.”
“Then it’s up to him to chew my ass, not you.”
“From the outset you’ve been dragging your heels. Your mentor and I would like to know why. Is it the suspect that’s made you gun-shy? Have you developed a fondness for this woman?”
Hammond’s eyes stayed fixed on his father’s, but he remained stubbornly silent.
Preston Cross’s features turned rigid with fury. “Jesus Christ, Hammond. I can’t believe it. Are you insane?”
“No.”
“A woman? You would sacrifice all your ambitions—”
“Don’t you mean all your ambitions?”